Michael
by Manofmarmots
Summary: Based on original idea by Adamioli on Tumblr: "Spn!Au where Sam, Dean, and Adam are taken to this sciency place where people are experimented on and turned into either Demons, Leviathans, or Angels and then shipped of to fight in this huge war." In Chapter one we meet Adam and Samandriel and the adventure begins.
1. Chapter 1

Michael

We begin in a room, plain—inoffensive. The walls are white with brown trim. The floor is polished hardwood. In the corner is a large plant of vague description. Perhaps it's a fern? Perhaps a ficus? It's leafy with an intense aroma. It's meant to be soothing.

The room's dimensions are slight. It is at most eight feet by eight feet. To its occupants it seems smaller. At the back of the room is a large uncomfortable couch—green with floral pattern—at its center several small circular tables—and at the far side a door and two shelves stocked with books and games and on top of which is an old-fashioned looking radio that, when smacked, can be made to play static. It is a well lit room—wintry light comes in through several windows behind the couch—but an empty room.

Well, nearly empty. On the couch sits a boy—18 barely—with sandy hair and green eyes. He's mostly ordinary. His lips quiver. He holds a cigarette between his middle and his index fingers and smokes it out the window. His eyes are striking—stern but sad—accustomed to being rolled—though now they are unfocused, gazing blankly at a tree in the yard. A younger boy—skinny—not even 18—is the room's other only other occupant. He sits in a wheelchair facing the far wall. His stare is more vacant. His blue eyes pass over and over the wall—the shelves—the radio—and his fingers tap the side of his chair arrhythmically. His head is bandaged. His mouth's agape. He drools slightly. They wear matching hospital clothes. Soft and whiter than snow or swan.

How long have they been there? How long in silence? There's a total stillness in the room which makes telling the time impossible. They know they've been there since that morning. The older boy knows they'll be there until night. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall. Not a sound but the tapping of fingers and a smoker's cough which breaks at irregular intervals. The older breathes smoke out his nose. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall. Suddenly the older boy twitches his eyes in the direction of the younger. The younger passes his eyes over and over the wall—the shelves. The older sighs heavily. He takes a long drag off his cigarette. He breathes smoke out his nose. He flicks his wrist and the butt of his cigarette goes out the window. He licks his lips. He swallows his spit. He stands and goes to the younger boy—the younger boy passes his eyes over and over—the shelves—the wall—the radio.

"How ya doing, Sam?" The older asks. The younger taps his fingers against the side of his wheelchair.

"Alright?" The older boy waits for a response. It doesn't come.

"You've got something on your face—it's a little spit—not to worry. It's just polish." The older boy rubs the white sleeve of his white shirt on Sam's chin. When he's done, Sam begins to drool again.

"Man, you're like a fountain." The older goes to wipe Sam's mouth again. The sound of finger tapping stops. His eyes keep passing over—shelves—wall—radio.

"Adam?" Sam's voice is quiet and harsh. Raspy. Like speaking after screaming. Adam presses his sleeve against Sam's face, drying around his mouth.

"Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"How am I like a fountain?"

"Cause you squirt so damn much."

"Oh." Sam considers this. His passes his eyes over and over—the radio—the shelves. They stop. He smiles.

"Hah." The laugh is spoken. He resumes passing his eyes over and over. Adam goes to stand by the window. He reaches into the breast pocket of his white cotton shirt and removes a carton of cigarettes. He pops the top, pushes the cigarettes up from the bottom and extracts one with his mouth. He returns to box to his pocket and removes a lighter. He lights the cig. He puts the lighter away. He smokes his cigarette out the window.

"Sam?"

Sam doesn't respond. Adam inhales and breathes smoke out his nose.

"Samandriel?"

"Adam?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Conceivably."

"I mean, _may _I ask you a question." Adam rolls his eyes. Sam considers.

"Yes." Adam considers.

"Will you answer it?"

"Circumstantially." Adam rolls his eyes back the other way. He breathes smoke out his nose.

"When they—when they did the Men-Mod—when you became an angel—what did it feel like?" Samandriel hears Adam and his pupils narrow to a point. He goes still. He seems very far away.

"Fuck. Did I blue-screen you?" Adam flicks his cigarette out of the window still lit and stands up to go to Sam. Solemnly, Sam speaks.

"I'm remembering." He pauses. "I'm alright." Adam sits back down on the couch and goes into his pocket for another cigarette. Samandriel continues.

"It's…like waking up from a dream for the last time."

"I thought angels didn't dream? They don't sleep."

"They don't. But they did. And the last time you wake up you wake up in a chair; in a room; it smells of antiseptic; there's white light all around you and…it's just like forgetting a dream. Your life. Who you were. It fades. It's unimportant."

"You don't remember anything from your old life? Your name? Your mom?"

"No."

"Favorite baseball team?"

"No."

"Oh." Adam takes a drag off his cigarette. He breathes out his mouth and licks his lips. "I don't have a mom anymore." He looks away from the window, "I never really had a dad." He laughs "And my team's the Twins. Maybe I'm better off forgetting." They settle back into silence for a few moments. He licks his lips again, "Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"More or less than a trip to the dentist?" Samandriel passes his eyes over and over—the wall—the shelves—the radio—he pauses—then passes his eyes over and over—the wall—the shelves—the radio.

"I have never been to the dentist. I cannot make a comparison."

"Can you describe it?"

"Yes."

"_Will _you describe it? Please?" Samandriel flickers his eyes. He breathes heavily—unevenly—he gasps. He's remembering. "Or do that. That's pretty fucking descriptive." Adam stands but leaves his cigarette in his mouth. He goes to Samandriel and puts his hands on his shoulders. Samandriel's face turns red. He's sweating. He gasps. He breathes.

"It's—it's like—being strapped to a can't imagine the heat. And the smell. Like burning oil in a pan." At the corners of his mouth white flecks of foam appear. In between words he bites at the air like a child bobbing for apples. "And the feeling! The feeling that at any moment you'll—fall—you'll fall off. Into the dark, into the cold. At a million miles an hour."

"Hey—hey—Sammy—shhh, buddy, shhh…" Adam crouches behind the chair. He links his arms around Samandriel protectively. As his hands meet across Samandriel's chest the angel begins to quiet. "I'm sorry I asked, just calm down. It's all good now, buddy."

"Well, well, well—looks like you boys lucked out on the white uniforms. Helps to keep all the kiss kiss bang bang on the DL." Adam looks towards the door to see a moon-faced woman in a nurse's uniform. Her hair is dark. Her eyes are dark. She winks. And she holds herself with a slight ease into her left hip—so that you know you don't concern her in the slightest.

"One of you Adam Milligan?"

"I'm Adam."

"The top. You know you're really not supposed to smoke in here but I'll keep it our little secret."

"Are you going to help him?"

"Who's he?"

"His name's Samandriel."

"A Wing Jockey?"

Adam's growing impatient. "Yes."

She sneers, "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is not my assignment. Little Chief Broom-Sticks-For-Arms can chew his tongue off for all I care. He's an angel, it'll grow back." Adam rises outraged. She holds her palm out. "I've been sent to collect you and bring you to Carver-Edlund's Medical building. They're ready for you." Her sneer grows two sizes. She's clearly delighted. Samandriel whimpers. Adam puts his hand on Samandriel's face. It's warm. It's moist. He strokes his hair and rubs his neck. Samandriel eases like a horse.

"If it gets any more Brokeback Mountain in here Jake Gyllenhall is going to drop out of my asshole."

"What's your name? I'm going to report you to your supervisor."

She points to some script embroidered onto the breast of her uniform. "Come on. It's just three letters."

Adam squints. "Meg?"

She wrinkles the skin around her nose, "Ooh, can you fetch too?" Adam glares at her. "Tough crowd. Now you better get into your big boy clothes we've got a car waiting for us. Don't worry about your angel friend. He'll be here when you get back. Angels are basically plastic soda bottles; they'll be here long after we've blown ourselves to shit." Adam turns away from her. He drops his cigarette on the floor and steps on it then kneels down next to Samandriel.

"You good now, buddy?" Samandriel doesn't respond but his face is no longer flushed. "Listen, I've got to go out to get some tests done. When I get back tonight we can watch Glee in the community room." Meg's eyebrows go up. Adam snaps at her without looking, "Shut up, he finds the auto-tune soothing. Jesus, do the words 'easy target' mean anything to you?"

Meg smirks and says dryly, "Republicans."

…

The Carver-Edlund Medical building is not, strictly speaking, a medical building, although certain practices which might be medical in another context were practiced there on occasion. It was more a munitions factory. And despite what one might think during the day when sunlight slanted off its tinted windows onto its green-grass lawns—when family men and women were coming and going, talking about the weather and their children, and their children's birthday parties—when that bronze angel with the trumpet which stood in front of the building was gleaming, its carved in smile triumphant—despite what one might think then it was not a happy place. It was not a _good _place. And one could sense it. Things happened here. Things which were not inexplicable but unspeakable. Like when poor Jenny Kline ended up with her head in the oven. It was unfortunate, they said. She was such a bright girl, they said. On Fridays she brought cupcakes. And nobody mentioned her work in the lab; her late hours with her boss; what they found in the cupcakes. But it was a powerful place.

Walking in Adam had a vague sense of unease. His nostrils flared a bit as if there were a bad smell, but he couldn't be sure if it were the building or Meg flush against him like his prom date. She held him elbow in elbow when they got out of the back seat of the company car, saying in a singsong voice that "Everybody needs a buddy and your body's my buddy, Angel eyes." She seemed to get off on his discomfort as she flashed her ID badge at two large gentleman in suits that looked uncomfortably tight. They walk in through the front door and across a lobby, black marble with a high arched ceiling, and cold.

"It's a weird looking hospital."

"It's more a research center."

"Oh." Adam falls quiet as Meg leads him by the arm to an elevator. He tries to absorb as much as possible. He's never been in someplace so ornate before. He glances at his plaid shirt, and faded jeans. He watches women cross the lobby in dresses that come to their knees. They're red and black and pinkish-orange and green and from them emerge long legs which end in longer heels. He blinks and swallows. And there are men in three piece suits, their hair cut short, their eyes severe. He blinks and sniffs. And all over there are men and women in doctor's coats and nurse's uniforms. He notices these last. He's seen them before. Meg presses a button, the elevator doors ping then open and they step inside.

"Going up," Meg says grinning, "It must be a nice twist on your usual going down."

The elevator jerks up and Adam slumps his shoulders. "You're not funny, you know. You're a homophobe."

"Really? 'Cause it doesn't look to me like I'm the one getting all hot and bothered. What's a matter—think you like thinking about Teen Angel? Does he make your heart flutter? Or something else?"

"You're just a troll."

"Close but no conceivably phallic object. You must be so disappointed."  
Adam blinks. The elevator stops rising and the doors open.

"This is your stop. Hope you've enjoyed the ride. Look for Doctor Mara. To the left."

"I find you very unpleasant."

"You're the 99%, Kiddo." Meg gives Adam a queenly little wave as he steps off the elevator. He makes a different gesture as the doors close and we faintly hear 'My, my, my—what would your mother say?" Adam looks at the floor—white tile, no pattern—and breathes through his nose. He finds himself standing in the middle of a very long hallway. The walls are bare, white and it's quiet. Almost impossibly quiet. Weren't there people up here? Adam turns to the left and walks. He listens for the sounds of his steps, the squeak of shoe rubber against clean tile, but it isn't there. When he reaches the corner he turns left again into another section of hallway at the end of which is a door opening into an office. He lurches forward, leading with his shoulders. The fluorescents trip off of the white walls onto the white floor. Everything's a glare. It's almost like a dream. Adam puts his hand in front of him. He tries to shade his eyes. He hears a voice. A woman's.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" It's melodic—deep and cool—flowing like water over stones.

"I'm looking for…Dr. Mara? I'm Adam Milligan. I'm here about…Michael?"


	2. Chapter 2

Michael (Cont.)

Doctor Naomi Mara had put a great deal of effort into making her office "comfortable." There were pictures of children on her desk. Presumably hers. They had her red hair and blue eyes. They lacked her severe cheek bones. There were framed-stick figure drawings on her desk. Presumably her children's. They featured a woman with a long spine and a black skirt. Her red hair curled over her head like a spaghetti strand, her blue eyes were all iris. Next to these on her desk were old Christmas cards, propped up to give season's greetings long after the season had gone, several enigmatic looking metal objects which might have been modern art or paper weights or both, and one of those needle-hand-print-feels-really-good-when-you-touch -it-toys. Adam fights the urge to pick it up as he walks into her office.

"You gave me a fright, Mr. Milligan. It's so lonely up here usually—I thought you were some kind of ghost." There's an alien quality to her voice. As if it were coming from deep out of the earth or being carried through a thicket of trees. It was a little like being whispered to.

"Sorry. Not a ghost."

"Obviously." She smiles. Her teeth are white and straight. "I'm Dr. Mara," she extends her hand, "Pleasure to meet you finally. Put a face to the files."

"Yeah, pleasure." Adam takes her hand. It's cold. "I feel like I've seen your face before."

"You probably have. I've given a number of talks on behalf of the Carver-Edlund corporation—some of them televised. I've also been published in a couple of different Journals—cover of Modern Psych—I've even been on Ellen. I'm almost a public entity." Her smile never breaks. "Why don't you take a seat in my office and we can begin with some preliminary questions. I'll explain a little bit about the Michael Project—then maybe a tour? If you'd like."

"Yeah, sure—that sounds great." Adam smiles politely as she gestures for him to enter. She motions for Adam to sit in one of two black leather chairs and seats herself behind the desk on a swivel chair which she doesn't swivel. In front of her is a manila folder thick with papers. She clicks the top of a ball point pen and opens it up to about the middle.

"Splendid. Let's just do a quick biography—double-check some facts—you were born—"

"September, 29th, 1990. I'm a Libra." He smiles. She thinks that information is extraneous.

"Graduated from high school with honors. Attended the University of Wisconsin for about a year—pre-med?" Adam nods. Yes, yes, and—yes.

"Estimated IQ 135. Then your mother passed away?"

Adam swallows. His throat is dry. "Yeah."

"It was a Gen-Mod raid?"

"Yeah. A ghoul, I think."

"I'm sorry." She looks up from her file and smiles mechanically. She extends her hand but doesn't touch him. "That must have been terrible. And messy." She looks back into the file. Adam's eyes darken momentarily before her voice calls him to attention again.

She says without looking up, "No known father. Difficult to test for inherited genetic disorders. No history of mental illness on your mother's side of the family though. Good." She's talking more to herself now than to Adam. She turns pages in the file by the corner. Occasionally she'll lick the tip of her finger to stop it slipping off. Adam holds his hands in his lap. He thinks about his mother. Her laughing. Her pouting. In High School when she would tease him about his hair. In middle school when she made him lunch he didn't want because all of his friends bought theirs. Those nights when she would get home from the hospital and put her feet up on the couch without even taking her shoes off and he would microwave her leftover Denny's but—she was already asleep. And he thought about her face—not a face—red and mutilated. Bile comes into the back of his throat. He swallows. It's gone. And he looks at Doctor Mara as she flips through his file.

"Everything seems to be in order as far as physiology. Let's talk a little bit about Project Michael. First, tell me what you know about angels."

"I guess just what everyone knows. They're super-strong. They're unkillable. Er, they put on a hell of a light show." He pauses. He thinks. "And they can fly."

Doctor Mara laughs as if cued, "I suppose that's the pop culture breakdown. Angels are a type of men-mod—short for mentally-modified—distinct from gen-mods—genetically-modifieds. They're one of only two-types of Men-Mod. The other being—"

"Demons."

"Bingo. As the kids say. Whereas there are dozens upon dozens of gen-mods resulting from the mutagenic properties of the initial cellular implants, angels and demons are the result of a more controlled alteration of the human being. Beginning with a systematic restructuring of the brain." She looks at Adam and smiles. "Now do you know the difference between an angel and a demon?"

Adam looks down. He knows this one. He licks his lips. "Demons are used mostly for surveillance—espionage. Angels are used mostly as tanks."

She laughs again. Everything he says is so funny. 'I wouldn't put it quite that way. But yes, Angels are generally more forthcoming about their intentions than demons—and stronger. Angels are essentially walking, talking, scowling, _thinking, _nuclear bombs. And because they're so much stronger, candidates to undergo Angel-Modifications must generally be more refined than candidates for Demon-Modification. The government culls prison populations for service as demons—I'm sure you heard about that on 60 minutes—"Adam kind of smiles, kind of nods, not too much of either one, "About Angels we are far more—selective." Adam wonders if he's being complimented, "This is where you come in. We believe you make a uniquely good candidate for angel-modification."

"Why do you think that?"

"Carver-Edlund runs government sponsored analysis of DNA samples submitted to various agencies—Sperm Banks, the Red Cross—You've seen this on 60 Minutes—and your DNA—has something—we don't know what—let's call it the It factor—which predisposes you to becoming an exceptional Angel. Combined with your academic record and orphan status—you're the Kobe Beef of Human meat." She laughs at her own joke.

"I'm glad I could help." Adam swallows.

"Of course. Now—"she reaches under her desk to remove two other files, each about as thick as his, "—about the Michael Project. If you know my face then I'm certain you'll know these two." She flips the folders open to the front page and slides them across the desk so that Adam can see two color photographs paper-clipped in. They're of two young men, one with fair hair and green eyes, and the other with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes. Adam squints.

"They're the Winchester brothers. They're criminals."

"Terrorists."

"What about them?"

"It's widely known that Dean Winchester, the older is Ex-Hunter with the UFA. Average intelligence but highly trained. It is less widely known that prior to their assault on several members of the Carver-Edlund Executive Board and the US Government Sam Winchester was en route to becoming an Angel."

"Is that true?"

"No. It's rather inexact. Like you Samuel Winchester possessed an exceptional capacity for mental-modification. The boy tested into Stanford out of home school conducted in the back of a '67 Impala. We anticipated being able to do things with his brain which we had never before been able to do." Her boy has tightened a little. It is difficult to tell if she speaks with reverence or hunger.

"That's…cool. I guess." Adam mumbles.

"The procedure began quite well. The boy displayed abilities far above average. TK, the expulsion of demonic influence—he even experienced something like precognition—we're still sorting out exactly how it functioned biologically—but he could make incredibly accurate intuitive leaps and strategize accordingly. It was spectacular. But we lost control."

"He Jurassic parked you?"

Naomi doesn't get the reference. "He exhibited a dangerous codependence with his brother. Separated for extended periods of time he became emotionally unstable. Violent."

Adam licks his lips, "I thought you did Psych Evaluations? I thought that's why I was staying in Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends?"

Naomi doesn't get the reference. "We do psychological evaluations but—you must understand—the process is not outpatient, it's ongoing. And can be quite stressful. What's more Samuel's degeneration wasn't longitudinal. He experienced a total psychotic breakdown in a single day. Under the influence of his ex-pat brother."

"And you want me to—replace him?"

"No. We want you to find him and destroy him."

"Oh." Adam blinks.

"He's incredibly dangerous."

"So you want me to become…an Angel—"

"Michael."

"—and kill him."

She looks surprised. "Not kill, no."

"Oh."

"We could kill him ourselves if we wanted. We have the technology. We need you to do what only a powerful angel could do—wipe him clean."

Adam blinks. "Could I maybe have a more technical explanation?"

"The total re-construction of Sam's brain cost us and the US government. He represents a significant monetary investment."

"And you want me to—"

"If you accept our invitation, you will become the Angel Michael—powerful enough to go blow for blow with Sam—and you will use your power to eradicate every trace of Sam's personality. His thoughts, his memories, his feelings—what will remain is the pure physical specimen." She sits back in her swivel chair, "And using that we can continue where we left off." She thinks for a moment. "You might kill Dean though. Whether you do it or we string him up for treason—the boy's lost."

"Oh."

"Now I'll walk you through the process of becoming an angel—" She begins to move her lips. Adam tries to listen but he's distracted. He thinks about the Winchester brothers. He saw them on the news last year. He and some friends watched video footage of them attacking a Pent House in Chicago. They were in a bar. At the time he was worried he didn't look enough like the picture on his fake ID. He tries to remember the news reports. His eyes go crooked. Fire. Black smoke. A gun. He remembers a good-looking detective. Not detective. Special-Investigator? Black hair, square jaw. Voice like gravel. "The Winchester brothers represent a threat not only to the Genetically-Modified but to everyday citizens. They do not consider themselves terrorists—in their minds they're on a crusade." The voice fades out. Naomi is still talking. Adam tries to focus. But then there's Samandriel. In a wheel-chair. Was he exceptional? Not him. Whoever he was before. Did he get the spiel? Did they sit him down and tell him he was special—they needed him—he was "select." Samandriel's hair was the same color as his. Softer. Smelled like sweat. What did it smell like before? What shampoo did he use? Was he good at math? Did he like sour cream and onion potato chips? Adam imagines Samandriel sitting in his wheel-chair humming along to the Glee version of "Don't Go Breaking My Heart." Adam danced to that at his prom. Not the Glee version. The good one. Right before he made out with Kristin McGee.

"At the end of it—I won't be me will I?"

Naomi's bottom lip hangs open. Her eyes are wide. She was _talking. _"It's—complicated."

"Is "complicated" code for "not complicated at all?"

"In a sense," She chooses her words, "much of what you consider "you" will be—inaccessible. Your memories will be suppressed. Likes and dislikes. Bad habits." Her eyes go side to side then level with Adam's "But at your core you'll be a continuation of your pre-angel existence."

"To what extent will that continuation of my pre-angel existence give a damn about anything—I give a damn about—my mom—my—" His voice catches.

"Everything you hold dear to you now you will still hold dear." She continues decisively, "But you'll have a mission. We're going to make you better Adam. You Plus 1. Do you know how many people mire in uncertainty? In doubt? False hope? We're offering you salvation Adam."

Adam breathes. His shoulders relax a little. He thinks. "The process isn't reversible at all is it?"

Naomi pauses. "Not at the present time."

Adam swallows. "I'll think about it."

Naomi smiles. She means it to be reassuring. "That's all we ask. Now if you'd like a tour we can begin with the cafeteria. I didn't have breakfast. Then perhaps you'd like to see some of the labs?"

Adam slaps his hands on his thighs and stands up. "Sure. Sounds good. What's for grub?"

…

Adam picks the tomatoes off a half of a tuna sandwich. It doesn't make the bread less soggy. Naomi seats across a small plastic table. Her back is turned to him. She's talking to a man in a suit. Bald. Vaguely lionish. He glances at Adam glancing at him and smiles with his eye-teeth. Adam looks back at his sandwich. He squishes the bread and meat together. Think it's a fucking steak he tells himself. He's hungry. Sick of hospital food. It occurs to him that this is hospital food. He sighs and pushes his plate away. He surveys the cafeteria. It's a big room. Full of people. Hard to settle his gaze. There's a group of people sitting at a long table made of a bunch of smaller ones. At the head of the table is a woman, Indian, fire-truck red blouse. Sitting next to her is a man—European? Adam wonders if they know you can see his hand on her thigh. He looks away. Across the cafeteria he sees a moon-faced girl in nurse's clothes. She waves. He looks away. A girl with red hair. A guy, tall, skinny, he's got a glass of wine. It's 2:00 in the afternoon. Another girl with red hair. A guy with a Twix Bar. Two Twix bars. Adam's eyes circle the room and then start to circle back. One of the red heads is coming over. She sees him looking. She beams, she waves. He can hear the heels of her boots clacking. She's standing in front of him. She points to Naomi and mouths, "Need to see her." Her face exhibits Groucho Marx elasticity.

"Naomi?"

Naomi and the man she was talking to turn around. "Yes, Dr. Pond? Is Dr. Volkov ready for us in the Gen-Mod Lab?"

"Just about, ma'am. Trying to get everything spic and span and—"She throws her hands up emphatically, "Shiny! Hi," She turns back to Adam. "I'm Doctor Amy Pond. I work with Doctor Volkov down in Gen-Mod." She looks at his half-eaten sandwich. "Not a great sandwich?" She winks slyly, "Don't worry, I've got a box of bite-size Milky Ways downstairs." She laughs—it's such a warm little thing—"I'm always eating things I shouldn't."


	3. Chapter 3

Michael (Cont.)

Evelina Volkov looks into the darkness and the darkness is her. It has her eyes. It has her mouth. It pops its gum like she does. And it walks barefoot in the snow. Evelina Volkov has never feared darkness. She fears nothing. She became a goddess at 14. She fears nothing. When Oppenheimer ignited the first nuclear bomb at the Trinity Test in 1945, he became Death. Hardly. Less than half a century later she helped to develop the first gen-mods in a lab near the Kremlin in Moscow. And she became Life—Fire—Goddess—All. The population of Moscow was decimated. When wasn't it? And when the fires began, after hours of darkness, she walked barefoot in the snow and she could hear the beautiful sound of screaming. Her children brought her gifts.

Now she walks barefoot in a lab in bumfuck, USA. Where bum-fucking was ironically still illegal. Fucking savages. It's all so paltry. But Carver-Edlund gives her free reign—as she so rightly deserves. She passes tables on top of which are beakers in which are DNA samples. Thin white strands. Little threads of the universe. She admires how their simple appearance belies their complexity. It almost seems that one could pluck it out of the solution and sew it into her lab coat—how quaint—how appealing—to wear life around her like a shawl. She makes a mental note. She passes tables on top of which are computers—sleek—new—useless except for logging data. Modeling data. Recreating life. Bastardizing it. She resents them. She's unaccustomed to them. They hum constantly. They're humming now. She curls her lip. Machines. Repulsive. The soles of her feet slap the white tile floor. At last she reaches the cages stacked against a wall at the back of the lab. She peers into them. They're filled with rabbits. She inspects each one. Her eyes go fast. No. No. No. She sniffs. No. She doesn't register the stunning dissimilarity these rabbits bare to rabbits. The claws—the teeth—the proboscises—un-unusual. At last she stops at the cage of a plump looking brown one. Yes. She undoes the latch of the cage and takes it by the scruff of the neck. She returns to her worktable where an electric green concoction reaches a steady boil.

She reaches for a syringe—she undoes the plastic wrap—sterility is key—she pours the luke-warm-lime green chemical into a dish and draws some into the syringe. She pushes the end. It squirts. Her nose twitches eagerly. She's never needed a man or woman. She is all. She reviews the body of the rabbit carefully. She runs her fingers over its back feeling the looseness of its skin. She bites her lower lip. She pushes the needle into its flesh. She empties the syringe. The rabbit blinks. It twitches its whiskers. It sniffs. It sniffs. It sniffs. It can't sniff. It tries to sniff. There's pain in its little rabbit chest. Its heart is pumping faster. It sniffs. Can't sniff. Tries to sniff. There's a pain of cutting in its neck. It blinks. Its whole body constricts. It sniffs. Can't sniff. Tries to sniff. Can't sniff. Can't sniff. Can't sniff. Pain. At last the rabbit spasms and lies still.

Evelina Volkov takes it by the scruff of its neck and tosses it into a nearby pan. She goes to her workstation—with a computer—humming—and picks up a pad of PostIt notes. She removes one then goes to the rabbit. She leans against the countertop and writes "Please dissect. Take accurate notes for file on Formula 612." She sticks it onto the body of the rabbit.  
"Doctor Volkov?" There's a voice. Distressingly commanding. Smooth like a river. Evelina Volkov turns on the balls of her feet.

"Doctor Mara?"

"You didn't hear us come in?" she gestures to the orange-y girl and a boy. Blond hair. Stupid look. Pretty eyes.

"I was busy."

"We saw."

"What did you do to the rabbit?" The stupid boy speaks. Stupidly. Tiresome.

"I gave it gills."

"Oh." The answer looks to be insufficient.

"Was that answer not sufficient?"

"No, it was pretty sufficient." Stupid boy swallows. Nervous. Weak. "I was just wondering—Er—why?"

He doesn't understand. Nobody understands. It is her tragedy. She scowls. "Why not?"

"I think what Doctor Volkov means is that the tactical advantage of any appendage shouldn't be underestimated." That's not what she means. Mara raises her eyebrows. Fuck Mara. The orange-y girl smiles. She's uncomfortable. Fuck the orange-y girl.

"I suppose you want me to take notes and log 'em for you?"

"No, I was think I would do it myself obviously there's nothing else I should be using my genius for except to type numbers into little boxes." She rolls her eyes.

"Okeydokey." She sounds defeated. Good. "Adam if you want the Milky Ways are in my desk. I can show you where we keep the bodies for dissection. I can show you how to dissect bodies!" Her enthusiasm is palpable. Evelina Volkov licks the back of her teeth. She watches the stupid one and the orange-y one walk away. She turns to do something with a beaker but Mara steps in front of her. Fuck Mara.

"What were you thinking?"

"Right now I am thinking about twenty-thousand different things; you'll have to narrow it down." Fuck Mara.

"That boy is a prime candidate for Project Michael. It is imperative that we put on our best face—his compliance is invaluable."

"To you." Evelina Volkov attempts to push past Mara but Mara takes her by the arm.

"To my higher ups."

Evelina stops for a moment. She knows what that means. Fuck what that means. She curls her lips.

"I'll have Pond show him the bunny rabbits. Perhaps he would like to pet them? Give them eskimo kisses. Then maybe we can give him a lollipop?" The word is thick in her mouth. She practically spits it at Mara. Mara smiles with her mouth. Never her eyes.

"If that boy asks for a lollipop, you give him a lollipop. If he asks you to stick a nine inch wooden dildo in your ass then I don't care if you're pulling splinters out until next Sunday—you do it. Are we clear?" Mara smiles. Fuck Mara.

…

Adam watches Amy reach into the bottom drawer of her desk. At the bottom of her lab coat her calves are sticking out. They're full and cream and peach. Adam licks his lips. He hopes he's not staring. He's totally staring.

"A-ha! Here we are." She comes out of the bottom drawer of her desk. She's got three little Milky Way Bars in her hand. "Two for you," she hands them to him, "And one for me." She peals back the gold foil raises the brown square to her mouth and bites it in half. She visibly enjoys letting it melt. Her eyes close. She smiles. She opens her eyes. Adam's staring. She laughs. She snorts. She covers her mouth. Her eyes are still laughing. She swallows.

"I'm so embarrassed. I make a food-face."

"No, don't be." Adam smiles and his teeth come apart a little. "It was a good face."

"Yeah, okay." She puts the second half into her mouth. She waits for it to melt. She looks at Adam. She laughs.

"What?"

She stops. She breathes. "Don't look. You're making me corpse. Eat yours."

Adam tears the foil off of one of his chocolate bars and puts the whole thing in his mouth. Then he talks, "Corpsing? Is that a medical term?"

"No, it's something actors do. It's when they can't stop laughing even when they're trying to be serious. I just like to use it because, well—"She waves her hands around, "corpses."

"Huh?"

"We're surrounded by corpses."

"Oh." Adam stops chewing his Milky Way. He swallows a couple of times to get it down with spit. "Corpses?"

"Yeah. Mostly Gen-Mods. Mostly expired test subjects. Sometimes we get a salvage and that's a good day because you never know what's happened to a particular strain out there—in the wild."

"Oh."

"Mostly I get to do the dissecting. Evelina's usually too busy being a" she breathes it out of the side of her mouth in sing-song, "big time major Russian genius."

"She's…interesting."

"She's brilliant. A pain in the rear but unquestionably one of the great biochemists of all time. She invented the Vampire Gen-Mod." Adam raises his eyebrows appreciatively.

"Wow. Wow. She looks—is she older than me?"

"How old are you?"

Adam puffs up a little, "Nineteen."

"Oh, you're just a baby!" And he deflates. Amy laughs. "So's Evelina. She's twenty-two. But she was barely out of Pampers before she started—doing all sorts of things. Do they have Pampers in Russia?"

"Probably not. Probably just used broken glass from a vodka bottle—zing—"he laughs at himself. Amy smiles bemusedly. But she's not laughing. "Because they drink…vodka in Russia…and it's shitty…there…" She laughs. He smiles.

"You can save you're other Milky Way for later. Right now I'm going to show you how we log dissection notes. Ever seen the inside of a gilled rabbit before?"

"Er, no."

"Well neither has nobody!" She takes him by the wrist. He melts a little. He can feel it in his belly.

…

That night Adam's back in the home. His day clothes are back in his bags which are back with most of his personal effects behind the front desk. He's wearing hospital whites now. The smokes are gone from the breast pocket.

"Fuck." He goes to his bed and sits on the end. He takes his slippers off. He puts the soles of his feet to the clean hardwood floors. They're cool. He lies back on his bed his feet on the ground. He stares at the white ceiling and blinks.

"You have choice," she said. "Of course you have a choice."

"But I have to stay in crazy people jail?"

"We'd prefer it. If you decide to become Michael it would expedite the process."

"How long to have to decide?"

"There's no time-frame, Adam. We would, of course, like it if you made your decision sooner than later. Eliminate redundancies of effort."

"I'll get back to you soon."

"Please do."

"Thanks for lunch."

"Any time." And she didn't even shake his hand. She just closed the office door. Meg found him. And they left. He breathes through his nose. He stretches out on the bed until his fingertips touch the wall on the other side. No headboard. Nothing to bang your head against. He wonders if he should sleep. Lights out isn't for another hour or so. Can't tell. No clock. He rolls over onto his belly. He can feel his toenail tap against the floor. He wonders where Samandriel is. Probably community room. He pushes his face into the mattress. He breathes through the fabric. He thinks about how crazy he looks. He smiles into the mattress. He turns over onto his back. He searches for his slippers with his big toe. He hooks one and slides it back towards the bed. He can't find the other. He sits up. He slides one foot into one slipper. Where's the other one? He stands up. He's uneven. He crouches and looks beneath the bed. Nothing. Shadows. He stands up.

"Fuck." It's only been off a second. Maybe someone came in? He steps out of his room. Looks down the hall. Nothing. No one. Fluorescents. He can hear the television in the community room. Canned laughter and fuzzy reception. He walks towards it. His bare foot falls and slaps his slippered foot slides. He looks from side to side, embarrassed. Fall, slap, slide, fall, slap, slide. He winces. Someone's going to hear. He passes opened doors. Inside are other people dressed as he is-white clothes, slippers. Some of them look more alert than others. They watch him as they dribble on themselves. Some look less alert than others. They stand close to the wall their noses almost touching. Their eyes seem to follow something as it makes its way up the wall and across the ceiling—but who can tell? Fall, slap, slide, fall, slap, slide. The pounding of his bare foot on hard floor begins to hurt. He winces more from pain than embarrassment.

The narrow hallway opens up a little. On one side are doors to the kitchen on the other doors to the community room. At the top of both are little glass windows. Adam peers through and sighs. He turns the handle and enters the TV room.

"How did you even get that?"

"I dematerialized it. Then I rematerialized it." Samandriel sits a few feet from a large entertainment center—"mahogany"—his wheelchair moves slightly forward and slightly back as his fingers twitch. In his lap is Adam's slipper.

"Is that angel-speak for stole it like a no-good-dirty-rotten-stealer?"

"No."

Adam fall, slap, slides to Samandriel and picks his slipper up out of his lap. "Please tell me it wasn't subbing for a sock." Samandriel stares. His fingers tap.

"Alright. What are we watching?"

"Spongebob."

"Choice." Adam crosses in front of Samandriel and takes a seat on the community couch which is beat-up and smelly and mauve.

"Adam?"

"Yeah?"

"All New Glee tonight on Fox."

"So you can dematerialize my slipper but you can't change the channel?" Samandriel stares.

"Just so you know everyone in this room right now hates you." Adam looks at the only other occupant, a timid looking girl who has become incredibly interested in the contents of her draw-string pants. Samandriel's fingers tap. Adam goes to the TV and presses the Channel Up button. When he sees saturated colors and teenage angst he stops. He goes back to the couch. He flops. He lays his head on the arm near Samandriel.

"Hey I got you a Milky Way? It's in my room. If you want it." Samandriel's fingers tap. "I met a girl today." Samandriel's fingers tap. "A woman, actually. She's got to be thirty. At least. Pretty." Adam's eyes move back and forth. He can see the warped face of Rachel Berry in the rims of Samandriel's wheel. "How was your day?" Samandriel gurgles. "That's good." Adam puts his hand out. Samandriel's eyes flicker towards it. His mouth opens slightly. Adam withdraws his hand. He doesn't know what he was doing.

"Adam?"

"Don't tell me it's a repeat. I will cut you."

"Thank you." Adam looks at Samandriel. His eyes are on the screen. He begins to hum. Adam hears him. It's kind of tuneless. But it's soothing and his eyes close. It seems just for a second but when he opens them there's an orderly telling him to go back to his room. Samandriel's gone—and both his slippers are gone.

"Sam."


	4. Chapter 4

Michael (Cont.)

Adam sleeps on his back on a bed. It's uncomfortable. But he dreams. A man in a black suit. Many men. All the same. He turns his head to the side and Adam walks down hallways. Brick. Steel. Sunlight. Winter. Water under covered bridges where he grew up. Caught tadpoles. His mother with a fishing line better fisher than most people's daddies. Her room is dark. Big bed. Pink comforter. Dark red. And he walks from there. Like a child. Down a hall. Down a hall. Down a hall. Walls are blue. Geometric light. And stairs. He's down. His room. Blue walls. Covered in thumbtacks. Metallica poster. Computer. His bed is soft. Childhood bed. Power rangers. And he rolls over onto his bed in the hospital. He blinks. The air is stale. He's awake. He groans. He needs sleep. He pulls the covers up over his head. They smell like detergent. He closes his eyes and dreams.

…

Miles away. Night sky huge and full of stars. Cold enough to turn breath to fog. Dean Winchester sleeps. Sitting straight up in the driver's seat of '67 Chevy Impala. It's uncomfortable. He shivers. But he dreams. He deals blackjack on a river-boat. Silk vest. Red lights. Laughter. Drinks clinking. Pretty girl in a slinky dress. She holds her glass to her lips. She whispers something. Dean Winchester gives her a Dean Winchester smile. Patented. For you, darling, anything. She laughs. They all laugh. His eyebrows go up and he deals a hand. Hands on his hands. Rough hands. Calloused hands. Dean looks up into the eyes of a man, bearded; hat on his head. Bobby. What does he want? Desert sun. Arizona? No. New Mexico. Gen-Mod raid. Knife in hand. Things falling from the sky. People. Used to be people. Monsters. Sound of plane engines. Knife in hand. There's a thing with fangs. Slit its throat. There's a thing with fangs. Slit its throat. They never stop. He can feel his throat. It's burning? Bleeding. His eyes are full of sun. He can't see. Thing with fangs. Slit its throat. And a good man goes down next to him. Jo. Dumb girl. Young. Could fight like anything. Dead. Her face. A thing with fangs. Slit its throat. He's in a shack. Walls are moldy. Blood on the walls. Heads. Jo's. Bobby's. Daddy's. Thing in a chair. No fangs. It speaks. Eyes black. Cut its throat. Electric light. But it said. How's your brother? Sammy. Crouched in the corner. White clothes. Yellow sweat on the chest under his pits. Black eyes. Slit its throat.

Dean starts awake. It's morning. It's cold. Through the windshield he can see the hood of his car is open. He grunts and steps out the driver's side. He can see Sammy leaned over the engine. He's heating water for instant coffee. Shitty. Grit in your teeth.

"Morning."

"Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Didn't mean to wake you. This thing starts like a damn gunshot." Sam nudges the Impala with his foot.

Dean raises an eyebrow, "Don't talk about, Baby. Baby's a kitten. Baby purrs." He breathes. The air is cold. "And you didn't wake me, I just—woke up. Just natural. After four hours." He rubs his eyes. He opens them wide. He holds, he blinks. He puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the hood.

"Really? Those sounds you were making—just natural?"

"Yep." Dean looks at Sam. He knows the rules.

Sam puts his hands up defensively, "Alright. No chick-flick moments." He rolls his eyes.

Dean licks his lips and scratches his nose. "We got anything to eat?"

"We've got some granola bars and an old shoe."

"I'll try the old shoe."

Sam smirks, "Coffee's coming up."

"Damn, I'm hungry. Do you think there any mooses in these woods? I could eat me a fucking moose burger." Dean stretches his arms, pops his back.

"No, I'm afraid there aren't any "mooses" in North Carolina. Probably get a deer though."

"Shit, when did we get to North Carolina?"

Sam looks up. "Last night."

"Jesus, I must have been asleep at the wheel."

Sam's eyes widen. "That's reassuring."

Dean shrugs. "Where're we meeting our guy?"

"Diner a few towns on."

Dean's ears twitch. The corner of his mouth curves up. His eyes and his hands go wide as he turns to face Sammy. "Sammy, what the hell are we waiting for?"

Sam looks sadly at the almost boiling water. "Coffee?"

"That is not coffee, Sammy. That is ass. Ground Ass in hot water. Ass-water." Sam looks disappointed, "We can get real coffee. And pancakes. Pancakes are like breakfast pie, Sammy. And bacon—"Dean makes a guttural sound. He really likes bacon.

Sam takes the pot off the engine and tosses steaming water over his shoulder. It sizzles and melts the frost on the grass. "Actually, I think quiche is breakfast pie."

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Right: No chick-flick moments."

…

Shake and Bake Diner. Best Flapjacks on the east coast. That's what the sign says. Award-winning blueberry maple syrup. The interior is faux-fifties—mostly faux—and there's a jukebox in the corner playing "Rag Doll." The plastic tabletop is cool against Dean's wrists. He touches the silverware absently. He spins the knife. He purses his lips. He looks at the kitchen.

"We just ordered, Dean."

"I'm not saying anything."

"I can see it in your eyes."

"What?"

"You've got the Donner-Party Roseanne Barr I'm going to eat you alive look."

"I don't have a look."

"Dude, you've got madness in your eyes."

"Shut up." He spins the butter knife one way, stops it, spins it back the other. "Speaking of—"Sam looks left then down. "How's everything on the western front?" Dean smiles. Sort of.

"It's quiet."

"Sleeping good?"

"Sleeping alright."

"Hearing voices?"

"No."

"Hallucinations?"

"Nope. Solid as a rock." Sam illustrates by rapping his knuckles against his skull.

"Good. We'll need your rock-like head in the game." Sam rolls his eyes. The waitress—an older woman, thin yellow hair, pink face, thick waist—comes to the table with two mugs and a pot of black coffee, steaming. She puts the mugs down. They clank. She begins to pour.

"Do you boys take cream or sugar in your don't look up, don't even breathe different." Her voice becomes suddenly harsh. Dean looks up. Her eyes flicker black. He puts his hand in his coat where he's hidden _his _knife.

She rolls her eyes, "I guess 'don't even breathe different' is inexact. We've got demons, boys. The drop is compromised."

Sam's eyes go wide and he looks at the waitress, "Meg?"

"Gee, you two have mastered all of the finer points of subtlety. Like pointing and gasping."

Dean's look is smoldering. He growls, "What do you want to do?"

'Well I was hoping we could leave quietly without any killing but it looks like that idea's—"she turns suddenly and puts up a pink hand. An old man, wearing flannel and denim, standing in the middle of the diner, bowie knife raised, flies sideways into the window, "Off the table."

"Sam," Dean stands pulling a jagged steel blade—about the length of his hand—a little longer—out of his coat.

"Right," Sam slides out of the booth and stands behind Meg.

"Big and Tall got any juice?"

"Sammy?"

"Maybe. I need to focus." He licks his lips and blinks his eyes.

"Well, you focus your ass then" Dean says walking forward. The old man, slumped against the window, rather effortlessly picks himself up. He cracks his neck and his eyes flicker black. He grins.

At other tables patrons begin to rise. Two older women with flyaway hairs in the far corner, three rather burly looking gentlemen in trucker-caps and mud-flap tee shirts at the table just behind the old dude. Closest to Dean a guy who might be an accountant rises from his seat at the counter. Meg steps forward, raises her hands and drops the two burlier looking trucker-caps to their knees. It's clear it's taking considerable effort. The muscles in her face and arms contract. Dean steps towards the accountant. Slashes him across the face. There's a sound like a bug-zapper and the accountant slaps his hands to his face and screams. Dean is about to slash him again but is suddenly thrown over the counter by an invisible force. Knocks his elbow. Grinds his teeth. Slides a little and feels the grit of the unwashed floor against his face.

"Any time, Sam!"

Sam puts his hands to his temples. He rubs them vigorously. He tries to black it all out. Think of nothing. Be nothing. Let it happen. He scrunches up his face tight.

Dean stands up behind the counter just as the fry-cook—pot-belly visible under his apron—steps out of the kitchen. "Any time like now, Sam!" he swings his knife at the cook only to get back-handed across the face. He hits the countertop. Cook has him by the throat. Meg glances his way. In a split second the trucker-caps are up and Meg's being launched across the room. When she hits the floor Sam can feel it through the bottoms of his shoes. He opens his eyes. He closes his eyes. Black. Think of nothing. Be nothing. His eyes are shut so tight black begins to spiral red. He can hear something slam against the table. The sound of a bug-zapper. Meg saying "Anytime, Quick-draw." Black. Black. Think of black. Dean saying, "Sam!" "Stairway to Heaven" begins to play on the Jukebox. There's a feeling like a baby-tooth coming loose. Sam's heart skips a beat. He opens his eyes. The room is filled with black smoke. It's pouring from the mouths of the diner patrons. Sam turns around, it's pouring out of Meg's mouth. They're doubled-up and make a sound like gagging. The smoke begins to seep out through under the door frame and the creases in the windows.

Dean is standing behind the counter. He's breathing heavily. His lip is split. His nose is bloody. He looks Sam in the eye and gives him a thumbs up. One by one the diner patrons shoot up, straight as a ruler and blink. Dean hastily slips his knife back in his jacket and jumps over the counter. As he does his waitress looks at him and blinks twice. "Pancakes will be out in a second. Do you like syrup?"

"Yeah," Dean swallows, "I would like some fucking maple syrup." She blinks twice. What did she say?

…

Hours later. Sunny-Side Up Motel just north of Raleigh. Dean's leaning back into an uncomfortable looking bed. He presses an icepack against his elbow. He's got a bit of toilet paper in his nose. It's bloody. His eyes are on the TV Anchorwoman. Asian. Busty. He presses a button on the remote. The image changes to a medical drama. Across the screen in pink are the words, "Doctor Sexy, MD." He presses another button and the image flips back.

Across the room by the window Sam is pacing. He reaches into his pocket to check his cell. He puts it back. He reaches into his other pocket to check his other cell. He puts it back.

"She should have been here by now."

"Yeah, well." Dean raises his eyebrows and puts his chin out a bit. That's what demons do. They fuck you. They're built to fuck you.

"She might be hurt."

"I'm hurt."

"She's got info we need."

"There are other ways to get intel, Sammy."

Sam stops pacing. He looks at Dean, "That's Hunter talk."

"I am a Hunter."

"You were a Hunter. Now you're a fugitive. And we need all the friends we can get."

Dean breathes through his nose. This isn't an argument he wants to have. There's a knock at the door. Dean looks at Sam, on the other side of the room from the door. "You get it."

"Why do I have to get it?"

"Because it might be a well-endowed pizza delivery boy looking for a horny co-ed and I know you'd love that."

Sam rolls his eyes. His nostrils flare. He walks to the door. He makes sure to cross in front of "Dr. Sexy, MD." Dean makes a face. He opens the door to reveal a slender blond in black leather. Her skirt is lacy and comes to her knees. She puts her French-manicure onto Sam's face. His eyes widen. His mouth opens. He moves his pelvis back. She struts in. Dean's on his feet his knife in his hand.

"Dean, Dean, Dean…I got all dressed up for this."

She indicates her body. He lowers his knife, softens his grip but his jaw is still tight. "Meg."

"In the flesh. Well, someone's. Can I sit? I'm feeling a little woozy since my consciousness was forcibly expelled from Brunhilda this morning." She takes a seat on Dean's bed and crosses her legs.

Sam shuts the door gently. "Sorry about that. It's kind of hard to aim."

"I'm not complaining—scratch that I am complaining—but I'm not pissed. You saved our lives back there. Notwithstanding it was your stupidity that almost got us killed."

Dean glares. "Last time I checked it wasn't our idea to meet in that diner. And we didn't show up with a demon posse."

"You think I did? I want as little to do with Demons as you two. Demons aren't a side. They're tools. And those particular tools were being used by Carver-Edlund whom I especially don't want to know I was consorting with wanted terrorists and escaped science experiments."

"How can you tell they were Carver-Edlund?"

"Government doesn't do civilians. Fortunately for us the current regime is more stupid than corrupt. All of their eggs are in one basket. The pretty boy FBI agent—"

"Novak," Dean swallows.

"Yeah, him. Have you met him?"

"Once."

"He's basically a high-functioning autistic but I could break a diamond on that joy. And lose my lunch in his blue, blue eyes."

"Yeah, he looked especially sexy with a gun to my head."

"Maybe you shouldn't have tried to blow up that building."

Dean breathes through his nose. Sam walks back to the beds and takes a seat across from Meg on his own rented bed. He sighs. "What have you got for us, Meg?"

"Two things. Priority Number One: Carver-Edlund and / or the US government—not sure about this one—has a demon planted in the mayor of a small town in Wisconsin. Coincidentally Carver-Edlund has just started work on some sort of facility within the town borders. Can anyone else say exhortation?"

"And you think we should what—kill him?" Sam puts his knees together, puts his hands on his knees.

"Expose him. If we want to take down Carver-Edlund we need to show people that they're more than GI Bills and Apple Pie. With all of its involvement in China and Korea people forget that Carver-Edlund is still an independent player with its own agenda. We just need to give them a little friendly reminder that the angels aren't necessarily their friends."

"So that's priority number one," Dean leans back on his haunches, his bow legs come forward a little, he crosses his arms, "What's priority number two?"

She looks at Sam. She smiles. Every line in her face curves up. "They've found a replacement for Sammy."

Sam swallows, "A replacement?"

"Honestly people like you and me are basically hamsters to Carver-Edlund. One mushy, gooey cut-uppable brain is as good as another."

"So it's another angel? Big fucking whoop. We bring 'em down fast enough Clarence will never get his wings." Dean shifts his weight.

"Well I just thought you'd like to know seeing as it's your brother they're going to be slice-and-dicing…"

Sam and Dean look at one another. They pause. Sam blinks, "Meg—we don't have another brother."

Meg's smile grows two-sizes, "Oh, this is too good."


	5. Chapter 5

Michael (Cont.)

Samandriel breathes. Shallow. Smell of honey. Clover. Tobacco, nicotine, butane. And the sun shines. Feels it on his fingers. Feels it on his lips. He blinks. Everything is light. Except the grass. The grass is grass and Adam kneels beside him.

"What do you think? Nice to get out, Sam?" Adam puffs his cigarette.

Tobacco, nicotine, butane, clover, "Yes." Adam moves around him. Sun occludes. Shadows. Cool. Green eyes smiling. His face is a halo. Sun returns. Heat. A hand on his shoulder. Adam.

"Good," he puffs his cigarette. Adam looks sad. Sad Adam. Lines on his face. Sun on his face. His hand tickles. His eyes to his hand. A ladybug. Perfect and intricate. His eyes to Adam.

"Adam?"

"What's up?"

"There's a ladybug on my hand."

"That's…good…I guess."

"It tickles." Eyes to hand. Red. Perfect and intricate. Eyes to Adam. Everything is light. Tobacco, butane, nicotine, cinnamon. Smells like cinnamon. Cinnamon miles away through a kitchen window a woman and her hair is coconut smelling and her hands roll out little balls and stick them on a tray. Delight and eyes to Adam.

"Adam."

"I'm beginning to think you just like saying my name."

"She's making cookies, Adam."

"Is she now?"

"Yes she is. Right now."

Adam laughs, "The things that happen in there." Adam puts his finger on his head. His hair moves. Adam. "Last night you were screaming like a banshee and today it's cookies. What'd they do to you, Sam?" His finger is away. A memory of his fingertip on his skin. Adam. The wind happens. Smell of Adam. Cigarettes and blood and Autumn and dirt under fingernails. Adam's hand on his shoulders. Eyes to Adam. Adam looking at the sky. Green eyes. Sad eyes. Eyes to ground. Ants. Black ants. Chemical smell. They speak to one another. I love I love I love mother and there's a bit of muffin on the patio. Eyes to the sky. Heat on face.

"I really want to ask you something Sam. But I don't want upset you." Eyes to ants, to grass, to sky, to stars. Lips open. Breathe through the mouth. Sun on the mouth.

"What do you want to ask me?" Eyes from stars to sky to stars to sky to grass.

"When you were—active—did they…did they ever make you kill anyone?" Smell of Adam. Sweat and dirt under the fingernails.

"Yes."

"Oh." Eyes to eyes. Green eyes doubting. Blue eyes blue eyes. Eyes to ants. "Who did you kill?"

"A number of people." Smell of Adam.

"Yeah, but who? Why?"

"Enemies." Eyes to Adam. Adam's belly. Breath in the belly, breath out the belly. Smell of butane.

"Did it—feel good? I mean did you…did it…feel _right_?"

"No."

"Oh," sound of Adam swallowing, "Did it feel wrong? Like you had done something bad?"

"No."

"Then what was it like?"

"I don't understand."

"When you killed someone, what did you feel?"

Eyes to earth, to ants, to sky, to Adam, to sky. "Nothing." Wet in the throat.

"You can't have felt nothing."

"Adam, I don't understand." Eyes to eyes, eyes to ground, eyes to ants. Chemical smell: I love I love I love mother.

"Sociopaths feel nothing. Serial killers."

"I'm not a serial killer." Eyes to grass, to sun—sky—heat on face. Fingers on wheels. Cool on fingers.

"No, you're not. So you must have felt something—they were—enemies?"

"Yes."

"Were you happy?" Eyes to ants; from ant to ant. From ant to Adam's feet. Slippers. Smell of Adam's feet. Sour. Garlic-y. Sound of Adam swallowing. "Do you not want to talk about this? It's okay. We can just chill." Sound of Adam swallowing. Eyes to Adam. Green eyes. Cloudy. Adam blinks.  
"I felt no happiness. I simply did as I was instructed." Eyes to ants, smell of love love love mother.

"Do you ever feel happiness?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now."

"Oh."

Eyes to ant, to ant, to ant, to grass to Adam, Adam's chin. Round. Slight. Disappearing in the light. Adam is a silhouette.

"What makes right now so special?"

Eyes to Adam. Adam's neck. Adam's left shoulder. Adam's hip. Adam's knee. Eyes to eyes. Green eyes disbelieving. Eyes to Adam. Adam's knee.

"I don't know." Sound of Adam breathing. Smell of tobacco.

"I really wish I could talk to you before."

"I don't understand."

"I just want to be able to go back and talk to you before—to _you. _To the real you who went to school and scratched his ear and picked his nose and had some shitty job at the mall. To the you who was a _person. _Who could have needs and regrets. Then I could see if you made the right choice."

Eyes to ants, to ant, to ant, to ant. Eyes to Adam. Adam's ear. Smell of Adam. Cigarettes and autumn. Smell of cinnamon and autumn. Eyes to Adam. Adam's mouth. Color of a seashell. Color of a fingernail.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. It's not your fault." Smell of Adam's breath. "I just—you don't have any emotions? Any feelings? And you kill people." Smell of tobacco, butane, cinnamon, ants, lightning. "I punched a guy once. In high school. He called me a 'mama's boy" and I bloodied his nose good. It was like a double-barrel blood geyser." In the distance smell of lightning smell of rain hot and smell of rubber tires. "But I don't know if I could kill him. I never even killed a fish. My mom always had to." In the distance smell of lightning smell of lightning smell of wet pine and earth. Smell of Adam's breath.

"It's going to rain soon." Eyes to eyes. Green eyes. Searching. Comprehending.

"You want to go in?"

"It's going to rain soon."

"I'll take you in." Feeling of pressure in his back. Feeling of rolling. Grass disappearing. Sky disappearing. Sound of sliding door. Sun disappearing. Smell of rain disappearing. Smell of linens. Cold air. Silence. Stillness. Wheels on hard floors. Eyes to walls. Eyes to walls. Eyes forward. Eyes to walls.

"Adam?"

"Yeah?" Eyes to walls, eyes forward, eyes to walls. "What's up, Sam?" Eyes to walls, eyes forward, eyes to floor, eyes forward. "Do you want to go back to your room?"

"Yes."

"Okay. It's going to be dinner time soon. Do you want to go to the day room to get food or do you want me to bring you something?" Eyes to floor, eyes to wall, eyes, to wall.

"I want to stay in my room."

"Okay, I'll bring you something. Did you get meds yet?" Meds. Yellow. Blue. Tastes like C17H27N3O4S . Tastes like chalk.

"No."

"I'll talk to a nurse." Eyes to wall, eyes to floor, eyes to door, eyes to bed. His. Feeling of turning. Eyes floor wall white tan Adam. Eyes to eyes. "Bed or chair?"

Fingers on wheels. Feeling of cool. Feeling of cool. "Chair."

"Alright, bud. I'm going to get you a nurse and some chow. You sit tight."

Eyes to floor, eyes to bed, eyes to Adam. "How?" Adam smiling.

"Just keep doing what you're doing."

"Okay."

Adam's gone. Smell of Adam. Adam's shadow leaves the room. Eyes to wall to floor to wall to ceiling to floor. Smell of Adam. Smell of piss and shit and underarms. Smell of linens. Eyes to wall to floor to ceiling to smell of shit smell. Smell of boride. Smell of carrots. Hot. Smell of meat. Smell of eyes to floor. Fingers against steel against steel feeling cool. Adam's gone. Smell of Adam. Adam moving. Adam in white clothes. Voice of Adam. Distant. Walls between. Smell of blood. Not here. There. Shadows there. Dark room. Dark man. Words with clips. Pain of needles. Enemy. Eyes to floor.

Feeling of fingers on fingers off fingers on. Dark man dark words with clips. Pain of needles. Dark birds. Dark eyes. Birds eat meat. Smell of whiskey, smell of blood. Feel of blood in the body not in the body. That man. Dark man. Not here. Not here. Eyes to walls to floor to ceiling to floor. Pain of needles in the brain. Heat in the brain and the feeling of blood in the brain not in the brain not in the brain. Feeling of heat. Memory of pain. Eyes to the floor. Eyes to the floor. Feeling of water on the face feeling of heat. Eyes to floor. Sweat on floor. Mouth open. Feeling of air in the mouth drying out the mouth feeling of needles. Voice of Adam.

"Yeah, I need some for Samandriel."

"I know but he wants to eat in his room."

"I'll make sure he gets his meds."

"No sharp objects. Right because it's not like he can just kill us all with his brain."

"Thanks."

Memory of Adam. Green eyes. Seeing. Green eyes. Hand extended. Waiting for Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. A shadow at the door. Not Adam.

"Well hey there, Autism Speaks, a little birdy told me you still haven't had your meds today." Eyes to eyes, dark eyes, black eyes, eyes like his eyes. Heat in the face. Pain in the stomach. Sound of whimpering.

"Jesus, if you can't even manage a dry swallow I don't know what you and Hanson do in your free time."

"You know the way you talk to patients is really inappropriate. I wonder how they'd feel about it at Carver-Edlund if they knew." _Adam_.

"I don't talk to patients like this. Just my favorites."

"Yeah, well I happen to be their favorite too. I'm not saying I could get you fired but I am wondering how much you enjoy sleeping in back-alleys."

"Touche. I need to give Butters his medicine."

"I can do it."

"Are your wearing the little name tag that says 'nurse'?"

"He'll do it for me." _Adam. _"Hey, Sam—open up for me, buddy."Smell of Adam. Dirt under fingernails. Sweat on the palm. Feeling of fingers in the mouth. Taste of salt. Taste of C17H27N3O4S. Fingers disappear.

"Swallow." Wet in the throat and a thing in the throat. "Thanks, buddy." Feeling of hand on face. Perfect and intricate. And it's gone.

"Now if you'll excuse us, we've got some shitty meatloaf to eat."

"Whatever gets you to the good spot, Alfie."

"Alfie?"

"It's a song, a movie, and just the saddest little name in the world. I think it fits you."

"Get out, Meg."

"Fine, fine. Change the sheets when you're done." Eyes to eyes black eyes, eyes to eyes Adam's eyes. Black eyes disappearing. Adam's eyes. Adam sitting on the bed. Smell of meat. Indeterminable meat.

"Open up again." Spoon in mouth. Taste of meat. Indeterminable meat. Chewing. Wet in the throat. Hot in the throat. Sound of whimpering.

"Need me to blow on it?" Eyes to eyes, eyes to floor, eyes to trey. Food colors.

"Yes." Feeling of fingers on wheels.

"Do you think I look like an Alfie?" eyes to eyes, eyes to nose. Smell of Adam's breath. Indeterminable meat.

"I don't know. What's an Alfie?"


	6. Chapter 6

Darkness, Wisconsin. Smell of leather seats and fast food. Eagerly Dean unwraps a sad looking hamburger. He looks out the window. The evening is dark blue striped with the black lines of trees. He breathes from his nose and fogs the window.

"Any word from Meg?"

In the passenger's seat Sam reaches into his coat pocket and removes his cell. He flips it open.

"Not yet."

"Come on."

"Finish your burger. She'll let us know."

"How long can it take her to do some chalk drawings?"

"Possession can take a little while to take hold if you're not super-susceptible to it. Let her get inside his wife first." Dean looks at Sam. "You know what I meant."

"So how do you explain a demon walking around in Papa Smurf for like six months?"

Sam pauses. He thinks. "Probably wasn't possessed all the time."

"Just when they needed to fuzz up his mind?"

"Yeah, so he wouldn't notice the sudden increase in two-headed animals since Carver-Edlund's factory started running."

Dean takes a bite of his hamburger. 'Sons of Bitches." Chews. They got Bambi too. Checks his watch. Looks at Sam.

"Not yet."

Dean speaks through masticated cow, "Something stinks."

"Something always stinks."

"This is demon stink. " He swallows. "I don't trust her Sammy."

"She's been James Bonding for us for almost year now. She's saved our asses more times than I can count."

"She's scientifically designed to deceive and backstab. And we might think she's playing for us but there's just as good a chance that she's just playing us."

"She helped bust me out. She saved my life." Sam puts his lips out a little. His eyebrows go low over his dark brown eyes. It's a puppy face.

"She waited until after your brain was Chips Ahoy." Dean wipes his mouth off and in the smell of hamburger. His eyes go comically wide. "If she is a she. We've never seen her real face. She could be a 40-year old dude in a wife-beater broadcasting to us through some poor bitches. She could be Cat-fishing us Sam."

"She's not cat-fishing us Dean."

His breath fogs the glass. "She showed up a few days ago with a posse and some bullcrap about a brother we've never heard of and got no proof exists." He fogs the glass again. He turns to Sam. He pouts."And she's really mean—like unnecessarily mean."

Dean pushes the last of his hamburger into his mouth. His cheeks puff out. He chews and leans his face against the window. He swallows. He swallows again. He cleans between his teeth with his tongue.

"Let's give her the benefit of the doubt." Sam looks at Dean. "It's—possible that we have a brother that dad—might have—after mom died."

Dean looks back at him. "No." Sam licks his lips and looks down. He moves his neck and flips his hair out of his face. "No, Sam. I don't believe Dad would ever have a kid with some woman out in the boonies and not tell us that they existed. That he had some other family that we weren't a part of. Dad got messed up real bad at the end—that's what being a Hunter will do to you—but he wouldn't keep that from us." Sam looks uncertain. Dean blinks incredulously and leans forward. "He wouldn't Sam." Dean breathes through his nose. "Let's…let's walk up towards the house. Get in position for whenever Meg decides to finish Phase 1."

"Alright." Sam opens the passenger door and swings his legs out of the car. There's a crunch as he walks on fallen leaves. Dean pauses a moment. Breathes through the nose. Then he grabs the door handle and follows Sam. They walk around to the back of the car to the trunk. Dean grabs the handle, feels the rust underneath his fingertips, and opens the trunk revealing an assortment of weapons, melee and ranged, manual and automatic. Dean reaches out for a 9mm and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. He waits for Sam to take something. He puts his arms out.

"Would you arm yourself so we can get to breaking and entering, please?"

"I'm not taking anything with me."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"I don't need a weapon. We're going in there to get a confession and get out. There shouldn't be a fight."

"There's always a fight."

Sam looks Dean in the eye. Dean doesn't blink. "You go looking for fights, Dean. Anyway," He puts a finger to his temple, "In an emergency I've got this."

"You're like 50/50 with that at best. I'd feel better if you take a gun." Dean reaches for another. It's cool and heavy in his hand. Sam examines. It's color is gun-metal. They named a color after it. His eyes flicker to Dean. No chick flick moments. Sam takes the gun and tucks it behind his back.

"Don't lose a butt-cheek." Dean smirks. Sam's eyes go wide underneath his raised brow. "I'm kidding." Dean's affectation goes flat. "Mostly. Now let's go."

…

The feeling of being possessed is not unlike the feeling of having that type of dream which is not really a nightmare but is nonetheless unsettling. You see yourself as if you're standing outside yourself. Your arm moves and you wonder why as if it weren't you that moved it and that's silly isn't it? Of course you moved your arm. And you brushed your teeth that morning. And you put on your nice suit. And you kissed your wife. And you felt the blood slowly draining out of that girl as she cried out for mercy, mama, mercy. And you went to the bathroom to wash your hands. Why, if it wasn't you then it must have been someone else. And that's crazy. So of course it was you. But really you know that it wasn't you. It feels like you but it isn't you. There's something wrong with you. You don't sleep. You don't remember sleeping. Everything is continuous. Like a never-ending hallway. Like a landscape painting extending to the end of the world. You don't eat. You do eat but you don't taste it. There's food in your mouth but it might as well be ash. You know things you shouldn't know. And your vision is fuzzy, like looking through someone else's prescription.

John Downey, mayor of Gleason Wisconsin, is possessed. Had been possessed on and off for almost six months now. Living in that strange place between dreaming and waking and dying. He was a logical man. A practical man. Former quarter-back of a football team that went all-state back in '59. Worked in his daddy's hardware store out of high school then ran it for almost thirty years after his daddy passed away. Best selection of paint in thirty miles and his employees knew all there was to know about home improvement. Then when he was fifty years old he was run out of business by a new Lowes and he decided to step into the political arena and stand up for good old-fashioned fellows like himself who wanted to do a job right and make a decent living. He was beloved. Played Santa every year in the church Christmas pageant. Extended a personal welcome to those nice gay fellows who moved in down the way. Loved his wife and their children dearly.

Except lately he felt out of sorts. When he got home from work and Kathy had cooked him a big meal and he pulled her in close as his belly would allow—it didn't feel the same. And when he stroked her hair before he left in the morning—it didn't feel the same. And when he looked into her brown eyes—brown like baked apples—and he told her that he loved her—he didn't feel that he loved her. He didn't feel that he loved anything anymore really. And he couldn't quite put his finger on why. His brother told him he should start exercising and he did but it didn't help. His wife said maybe he should see a shrink but he didn't see how it was anybody else's business what was happening inside of him. When it got really bad he tried to drink it away but the drunker her got the more he realized he didn't feel drunk. He used to be a happy drunk. The kind of drunk that takes mistletoe off the ceiling and carries it around over their head. He wasn't happy now.

So it was a sort of relief one night when he got up off the couch to take a whizz before Kitchen Nightmares came back on and when he got back his wife was standing there with two young, model looking boys. Everything snapped into crisp, black-and-white clarity. He remembered who he was. He knew who they were. Winchesters.

…

"Good evening Mayor Downey." Dean smirks. Downey snarls. It sounds inhuman. He raises his hand to psychically throw Dean against the wall. His hand is raised. He waits. Still holding his hand out. He blinks.

"Sorry, if you look down you'll find you're standing in what we professionals like to call a "Devil's Trap." In layman's terms a steaming pile of "Oh, shit."

Downey glances down towards his feet. Beneath them on the old oak floors of his great-granddaddy's house is a complicated looking circle drawn in chalk.

"What is that?"

Dean smiles even broader, "Oh, you're a newbie. This is like an initiation then." Dean grins. Sam gets a chill at the base of his spine. Dean looks at Downey and continues, "You don't know all the stuff they put inside you." He gestures to the devil's trap. "This is backdoor programming. Symbols which you have been conditioned to respond to with a complete and total shutdown of your abilities. If you try now you'll find you can't exit Mayor Downey. Are you trying?" The demon looks constipated. Dean wrinkles his nose "I like watching you try."

Sam glances at Dean. He swallows. Dean's enjoying this too much. The woman on the other side of Dean, looking like Mrs. Eleanor Downey but holding herself like she never did with her hip cocked to one side and a look on her face like everyone in the world is dog-shit, catches Sam's look and smirks.

"Now you didn't know what a Devil's trap is—okay. That's pretty advanced. You might still be smarter than a fifth grader. I'll bet you know what this is." Dean removes his knife from his jacket pocket. It flashes in the lamp light. Sam's eyes—big and brown—fall on its jagged edge. Downey's eyes—blue with yellowed whites—follow Sam's.

"It's a—knife—a hunting knife—a bowie knife." The demon struggles to find the right words. He's afraid. He's trapped.

Dean laughs. Barking. Mocking. "In the ball-park." He puts his fingertip to the edge of his knife. "This isn't a hunting knife. It's a Hunter's knife."

Downey blinks. He breathes ragged. That's not true. But it is true. Dean Winchester's a Hunter. It's in his file. And his file is in the demon's—not brain—consciousness—wireless memory. Downey swallows with some difficulty. His mouth is dry. Dean keeps grinning.

"Now you don't seem especially bright so I'm going to tell you some things about Hunters. Hunters are soldiers trained specially to deal with non-human threats. When a gen-mod bomb gets blown in some middle-of-nowhere town we're the clean-up crew. And a Hunter's Knife is designed to deal with—whatever crap he might encounter." Dean begins to causally shine the side of the knife on his jacket sleeve. "It's got some silver in it to deal with those gen-mods that are susceptible to it. Werewolves—ghouls. It can cut through bone so you put enough force behind you can take a vampire's head clean off. And you'd be surprised what you could with something that's just, really," flat-side of knife over jacket, " really," flat side of knife over jacket, "pointy." Dean pauses to look at Downey. His hands are shaking. Dean smiles. A Hunter's greatest ally. Like the Batman.

"Now demons. What can you say about demons? They're just ordinary folks with ordinary bodies. If you want to kill a demon all you have to do is—" He puts his knife to his throat and makes a face. Screws up his eyes. Tongue out of mouth. He unmakes his face. Laughs. "Or you could but demons are cowardly little shits." He licks his lips, "You can't always get at your squishy bodies because you're using somebody else's squishy body as a meat-shield." Dean begins to gesture with his knife. Punctuating sentences with a flick of his wrist. "Now I could stick a regular kitchen knife into Mayor Downey's body. Maybe it would hurt a little." Dean considers this. Downey considers this. "And I could stick a regular kitchen knife into Mayor Downey's throat and it would kill him." Dean's eyes go up to the right. He cocks his head. He looks at Downey "But it wouldn't do jack to you." Dean's face gets suddenly severe. There are deep lines in his face like a mountain ledge. "No, it wouldn't do anything to you, three hundred miles away sitting in your underwear eating funyons."

Sam looks at the body of Mayor Downey which is now contracted, pulling tight from the face to the belly to the calves. He knows what's coming.

Dean continues, "But this—"He gestures with his knife, "A Hunter's Knife? It _can _hurt you." Dean tastes the word "can." "Don't ask me how. Ions or some shit." Sam feels cold. Dean laughs. "I'm not a tech guy. I'm a stab guy. And I stab you with this—you're going to feel it. And if I slit your throat with this—you will _die._" It's a harsh word and Dean makes it sound harsher. Sam winces. Downey freezes.

"You're bluffing." The words just escape Downey's tightly drawn lips. Dean looks at him. He smirks. He shrugs. He steps forward and puts the knife in Downey's gut. There's a sound like a bug-zapper and a light flashes behind Downey's blue eyes. Dean jerks the knife out and steps back out of the circle. Downey falls to his knees. His hand to his stomach. There's blood on his hand.

"Yeah, I'm bluffing."

"Dean!" Dean and Meg turn to look at Sam. His brow is furrowed. Dean cocks his head to the side. "Sam? We're in the middle of something." Dean swallows. Don't mess it up Sam.

Sam swallows. He looks at Downey. He looks at Dean. There's a sound of coughing. Downey gasps for air.

"What do you want? Information?" Dean looks at Sam then turns to Downey.

"As a matter of fact we've got information up to our ball sacs," Dean chews his lower lip, "If we didn't we wouldn't be here in the first place." He sidles up to the edge of the devil's trap. "What we want is a confession. On camera. We're going YouTube that shit." Downey looks up at Dean. His eyes are blue and pitiful. He breathes with some difficulty then spits at Dean's feet. It leaves a red mark on the wood floor. Dean swings his foot up smashing his shoes into Downey's jaw. Sam looks away. Meg smiles.

"Dean—"

"Sam." Dean looks at Sam. It's stern. Sam looks at Dean. It's pleading. Dean looks at Downey and steps into the circle. Sam looks away. He hears the sound of a bug-zapper. There's a muffled sound of screaming. Sam looks back for a moment. Dean's wrapped his coat around Downey's face. His knife is deep in Downey's thigh. He twists. There's another muffled sound of screaming. Sam looks away.

"Meg, please get the camera ready. He's ready for his close-up."

Sam closes his eyes. There's a sound of a bug-zapper. Screaming. Bug-zapper. Screaming.

"You ready to talk, Downey?" There's a sound of heavy breathing.

"Don't wear him out Dean. Think of this less as killing more as fluffing." The voice comes out of Mrs. Downey. It's almost grandmotherly. Dean looks at the body of Mrs. Downey. It's got its fingers—long and elegant—wrapped around a clunky looking camcorder. He blinks.

"Don't worry. I know how to get us a happy ending."

Sam blinks. He wants to look but looks away. "Can we please keep torture-porn a mostly metaphorical term?" His voice is strained. Dean looks at his brother's back. He forgets. Sam's not used to this. He didn't keep the family tradition. He went to Stanford. Ooh Rah.

"Sammy. We're just doing what needs to be done." Dean crouches low next to Downey. He puts a little pressure on his knife. Downey whimpers. Dean's eyes don't leave Sam.

"You had enough?" Downey sweats into Dean's canvas jacket. Dean gets close to Downey's covered face. He twists his knife. Downey's scream is muffled. "I asked you if you had had enough?"

Downey's voice is almost inaudible under the jacket. "Yes, I've had…enough…I've had…enough…"

Dean smiles just for a second. He's barely aware it's there and when it's gone he forgets it. He looks at Mrs. Downey's body. "Shooting Meg?"

"Let's Frost / Nixon this mother-fucker." Dean gives her a look. "What?"

"You probably know it better as "Frosting Nixon"." Meg rolls Mrs. Downey's eyes.

"Whatever. Sam—Sam?" Dean stands up and goes to Sam. His eyes have rolled back in his head. Only the whites are visible. His mouth hangs open. His fingers twitch. He breathes erratically and his body is rigid. "Sammy?" As Dean walks towards Sam there's a feeling of something huge and implacable. He's lifted up into the air and flies backwards into the wall. There's a sound of something cracking. Meg flicks her eyes to Sam. She swallows. She doesn't have repartee for this.

Dean's jacket flies off of Downey's face revealing a sweating, tired looking man. Sam's feet come off the grown just slightly. Meg backs up towards Dean.

"Hey, Jarhead. Your brother is about to go Dark Phoenix on our asses." Dean stands up. He stumbles. He rubs the back of his head. His knife is in his hand.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Sam turns his white eyes at Dean, then towards Downey. There's a feeling of wind and wooden panels begin to come up off the floor. The circle is undone. As soon as it's broken Downey is at Meg's throat. He puts his hand clean through and into the wall. Her eyes flicker black and smoke begins to empty out of her nose and ears and—when Downey removes his hand—the hole in her throat. Downey turns his tired blue eyes on Dean and the last thing he sees is Dean's hand as he sweeps his knife across his throat. There's the sound of a bug-zapper. A thin red line appears. Rapidly it becomes a thick red line—then a wave—scarlet—it looks like he's wearing red lace scarves. Downey's body slumps to the ground and three hundred miles away a young woman in a red sweater and jeggings collapses in a coffee house.

Dean breathes heavily. He looks at Sam. Sam's eyes look blankly. There's a sound of wings and the room begins to fill with light emanating from Sam's body—from his mouth and nose and ears and under his fingernails. There's a sound like whistling distantly.

"Sammy!" Dean walks towards Sam. Sam looks blankly. The room is all light. There's a feeling as of swimming in the ocean—seaweed catching on your foot or suddenly against your torso—Dean tries to call to Sam—he tries to walk—and then they're gone. The room is all shadows and the light of the TV. Gordon Ramsey shouts obscenities at the bloody bodies of the Downeys.


End file.
